The Adventures of Captain Horn eBook

Mok’s repertoire of songs could not be expected
to be large. In fact, he only knew one musical
composition, and that was an African hymn which Cheditafa
had taught him. This he now proceeded to execute.
He threw back his head, as some of the others had
done, and emitted a succession of grunts, groans,
yelps, barks, squeaks, yells, and rattles which utterly
electrified the audience. Then, as if his breath
filled his whole body, and quivering and shaking like
an angry squirrel when it chatters and barks, Mok
sang louder and more wildly, until the audience, unable
to restrain themselves, burst into laughter, and applauded
with canes, sticks, and fists. But Mok kept on.
He had never imagined he could sing so well.
There was only one person in that brasserie who did
not applaud the African hymn, but no one paid so much
attention to it as this man, who had entered the Black
Cat just as Mok had begun.

He was a person of medium size, with a heavy mustache,
and a face darkened by a beard of several days’
growth. He was rather roughly dressed, and wore
a soft felt hat. He was a Rackbird.

This man had formerly belonged to the band of desperadoes
which had been swept away by a sudden flood on the
coast of Peru. He had accompanied his comrades
on the last marauding expedition previous to that remarkable
accident, but he had not returned with them. He
had devised a little scheme of his own, which had
detained him longer than he had expected, and he was
not ready to go back with them. It would have
been difficult for him to reach the camp by himself,
and, after what he had done, he did not very much
desire to go, there as he would probably have been
shot as a deserter; for Captain Raminez was a savage
fellow, and more than willing to punish transgressions
against his orders. This deserter, Banker by
name, was an American, who had been a gold-digger,
a gambler, a rough, and a dead shot in California,
and he was very well able to take care of himself
in any part of the world.

He had made his way up to Panama, and had stayed there
as long as it was safe for him to do so, and had eventually
reached Paris. He did not like this city half
so well as he liked London, but in the latter city
he happened to be wanted, and he was not wanted in
Paris. It was generally the case that he stayed
where he was not wanted.

Of course, Banker knew nothing of the destruction
of his band, and the fact that he had not heard from
them since he left them gave him not the slightest
regret. But what did astonish him beyond bounds
was to sit at a table in the Black Cat, in Paris,
and see before him, dressed like the valet of a Spanish
grandee, a coal-black negro who had once been his
especial and particular slave and drudge, a fellow
whom he had kicked and beaten and sworn at, and whom
he no doubt would have shot had he stayed much longer
with his lawless companions, the Rackbirds. There
was no mistaking this black man. He well remembered
his face, and even the tones of his voice. He
had never heard him sing, but he had heard him howl,
and it seemed almost impossible that he should meet
him in Paris. And yet, he was sure that the man
who was bellowing and bawling to the delight of the
guests of the Black Cat was one of the African wretches
who had been entrapped and enslaved by the Rackbirds.